Hawkeye: Recruitment
by Adventures of RainDance Maggie
Summary: Behind every assassin is a story. Most assassins have tragic pasts. Clint Barton is no different. Find out how he became the world renowned assassin he is today. How he found himself as a weapon for the highest bidder. How he found himself on SHIELD's radar. But most of all how he found someone who understands what it's like to have a ledger that is dripping red.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! This is my first story on FF, so be nice. I'm a big Hawkeye fan, I was really disappointed that he only got 14 minutes of screen time on the entire Avengers movie. Add in the fact that for most if that he was Loki's minion, well I wasn't too pleased. Anyways I've read pretty much everything on Hawkeye and black widow on this site. So I've decided that I'll give it a go myself. If you think it's crap, tell me what I can do to make it better. I've a few chapters written so far and have a pretty solid plan written. My Hawkeye will take parts from the comics and from the movie. So if you're wondering that's why. The story is the recruitment story of how he became a SHIELD agent. Things will pick up in the next few chapters I'm just getting his backstory done first, not a whole lot if action starlight away but if you're patient it'll come. Anyway here we go. **

Clint Barton learned from an early age how to look out for himself. He realised that in our messed up world, the only person you can ever trust is yourself. Some might say that is a strange outlook on life for a seven year old boy. But Clint Barton was never just ordinary at anything. At seven years of age Clint had the mental capacity and thought process of a young teen. Clint's intelligence was what separated him from pretty much everyone else his age. Clint was a child genius, he was able to do anything he set his mind to. He was already over 4ft tall, and was well on his way to well above average height. Unlike most children his age, Clint had already taken it upon himself to start an exercise programme, which included push ups, sit ups and laps of the trailer park he lived in. The results were already starting to show, as he had built up a small amount of muscle on his frame. The last and possibly strangest difference between him and other seven year olds was his eyes. Clint's eyes were a blue like the sea, a blue so blue that if you looked into them it would seem as if there was a swirling whirlpool when he was enraged ,which wasn't often as he had fantastic self control. The scarier part was that when he wanted, basically on command, he could change his eye colour. When he did the became like two pools of ice with small gold flecks in the centre. When you looked into them they would chill you to the bone .

At the this moment in time Clint lived with his parents, a word he hates calling them as they were never that to him. He also had one older brother named Barney who was just over two years older than him. He and Barney never got on. They were polar opposites. Barney was loud and brash. While Clint was quiet, calm and distant.

They lived in a small trailer, on the outskirts of an abandoned trailer park, in a small town called Waverly, in the state of Iowa. The town was small, very small. Only a couple of hundred people lived there, due to the fact that there was so few people living there, it was a close knit community. Everyone got on just fine apart from the Barton's.

Clint's father, Harold, was infamous in the small town. The townsfolk had a good idea what Harold did to his kids. They just didn't care. He had been a hell raiser when he grew up so they didn't want his kids to turn out like him. They thought he was doing the right thing, so they turned a blind eye.

Clint's mother Edith, also turned a blind eye, not for the same reason as the town. But to save her own skin. Clint never loved here like every other seven year old lives their mom. They never had a relationship, so there was no love lost between the two of them. She may not have existed for all Clint cared.

Clint hated his father with a burning passion, and to a lesser extend his mother.

He hated that there was never any one there for him as he grew up, no one to help him, no one to look out for him. No one to stop his father from beating him religiously. But what he hated most of all for some reason his father singled him out while usually leaving his older brother, Barney.

He could never figure out why and that was what annoyed him the most.

Clint hated not knowing .

The sun was setting, a light breeze rustled the nearby leaves as it past. The orange glow basked Clint's young form in its warmth as he sat completely still up in his nest, which was at the top of a 30ft tree near his trailer. Ever since he could remember Clint always had an obsession with getting up somewhere high. He liked the silence, he liked being alone. Nothing could hurt him if he was alone, people couldn't hurt him if they couldn't see him. When Clint was up in his nest, he always either sat there thinking, or he was doing pull ups on a thin branch near the ground, to build up his strength.

Right now we find him thinking, he was wondering where the rest of his family was. Harold had taken his wife and his eldest son with him on a car journey. That itself was a strange occurrence. They had taken their old pick up truck, which was barely road legal. Clint found the whole event strange. Barney usually tried to stay away from his dad, the same way he did. So it was strange for him to tag along. Clint passes the time by swirling the knife he always had on his person at all times. With practiced ease the blade, was spun dangerously near to his hands at high speed. Clint had found that he had insane hand-eye co-ordination, another thing to add onto the list of things that made him unique.

Clint wasn't worried, the weight of the blade was comfortable in. He had found it about two weeks ago. Ever since then he was waiting for the time when it would come in handy. He practiced all day every day, until he was happy with his proficiency with the strange thing was that there had been no beatings since then. That was very strange, Clint couldn't have recalled a time where he had gone so long without a beating. Mind you the last one he received, was the most vicious he had ever experienced. Harold had been so drunk,that he didn't care if he left permanent damage. To make matters worse he had used his belt which had left deep welts all over his back. Clint never made a sound as it happened. He didn't want to give his father the satisfaction. Clint had taken it as a challenge to keep quiet during the ordeal. Clint loves had taken him while to be up and running, even now the welts hadn't healed. He knew the scars would probably never go away. In a strange kind of way he liked the scars, he felt as if they were a testament to his toughness.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the screech of tires, trying desperately to find traction on the sandy road that curved into the entrance of the park. Clint looked up to find his dad's old pick up truck flying down the sandy trail. The wheels were kicking up huge amounts of dust in its wake as it sped by. The truck kept getting closer, it was only a hundred yards away now. What happened next Clint was not expecting. His father pulled too harshly on the wheel, the entire truck tilted to one side. In a blink of an eye the truck had started to roll, and at breakneck speeds, literally. The car kept rolling until it came into contact with the solid trunk of a tree.

Clint took this all in very quickly. He knew ten seconds before the truck began to roll what would happen. The truck was going at well over 60mph. If that hit anything, the occupants of the truck were as good as dead.

Clint was right.

His mother was tossed through the air like a rag doll, straight through the windshield. She was dead as soon as she hit the floor. Barney shared the same faith, he was sitting in the back if the truck on the flatbed. There was nothing for him to hold onto as he received the same treatment as his mother. Clint didn't spare them a second glance as he heard a pained groan from the drivers seat.

Just like that, two members of Clint's family were dead.

Clint wasn't distraught, he was more numb than anything else. His sharp eyes which he learned when he was younger were far better than anyone else he had ever heard of scanned the wreckage for the third body. He found him still trapped in the wreckage.

Clint slowly made his way over to the drivers side if the truck. He glanced up and caught the eyes of his father. With slow methodical steps, he came closer.

"Oh, how the tables had turned," Clint thought.

Harold fought his way through the pain and blurred vision. You could say a lot of things about Harold Barton, but he was a fighter. That was for sure, Clint was slightly proud that he inherited that trait. He didn't think he would make it life if he wasn't a fighter. This man who he hated with every fibre of his being,was now in the position of vulnerability. But still he was able to meet his gaze after a viscous car crash.

Harold looked into his eyes. Clint was extremely surprised by what he saw, he was proudness in his fathers eyes.

Clint had never seen that before.

" I've always known you were special Clint," Harold rasped out.

Clint's eyes widened. His father never really spoke to him. He then furrowed his brow,he wasn't sure what to make of his fathers comment.

"What do you mean?"Clint asked, confusion clearly evident in his voice.

"You've always been smart Clint, smarter than someone your age should be, your gonna grow up to be something, I don't know what, but what I do know is that you've gotta be tough."Harold stated firmly.

Clint's eyes narrowed," That's where you come in, huh?" The accusation clear in his tone.

Harold chuckled lowly, he had already caught on. He really was something special.

"Yeah, that was my job, I need one son to carry on my name. That's why I picked you Clint, your tough, always have been, always will be." Harold coughed out. His injuries were making themselves known. Clint had almost forgotten them. He glanced down and saw the blood dripping from his fathers mouth. He saw his face contort in pain.

"I'm not gonna make it, your smart enough to see that. Will you do me one last favour before I go Clint?" Harold asked softly.

Clint didn't let it show on his face but he was very surprised,his father never spoke to him like that before. The next thing that registered in his kind was that he had a fair idea what he was going to ask of him. He schooled his features to form an emotionless mask, in preparation for what may come.

"What do you need me to do?" Clint asked warily, trepidation clear in his voice.

"Kill me Clint, it will take me half an hour of excruciating pain before my body gives up on me. My injuries are all Clint, I can't take it any more."Harold pleaded with him.

Clint's hands shook. His dad never pleaded with him for something, this was such a cruel thing to do to a seven year old boy.

Harold could clearly see the hesitation in his sons eyes.

"I know you've had a tough life so far, and I'm to blame for it, but I have a feeling that it's only going get tougher. If you can handle this you'll handle anything. I'm sorry it had to be like this, but I'm satisfied that you'll live through this and become stronger for it. So come on, man up and get it over with son!" By the end of his speech, his injuries had caught up to him. They were making it hard to talk, and so his last few words were said in a pained growl.

"You sure?" Clint asked firmly. The speech had given him the motivation he needed right now. He wasn't sure how long it would last, but right now he would be able to do it.

"I'm sure Clint" his father rasped out, hoping his son would end his pain.

Clint neared his father, his blade now clutched tightly in his hands. The blade was inching towards his fathers neck. Only a slight tremble noticeable. The sharp blade stilled as it touched his neck. Clint had seen in some of the comics that he found in the library, that if you cut the neck deep enough, it would sever the jugular. Killing the victim almost instantly.

So that's what he did, with one quick stroke, before he chickened out, he did it.

He watched with detached eyes as the life left the eyes of his father. He wasn't sad, he never had a real father. Not like the ones you see in the movies, where everything's perfect, and they play catch in the garden with smiles on their faces. No. This was the man who had taken away his childhood, his innocence. More than anything he just felt numb.

Than the realisation of him becoming a murderer at the tender age of seven hit him.

Seven. Wow. He never would have never thought things could spin out of control so fast. At the start of the day everything in his messed up world was okay, by his standards anyway. Now everything had changed. With one last look at the wreckage, he turned and started walking Back to the trailer. Never to look back again.

Tucking the blade into the waistband of his trousers he started packing up anything of value into a small black knapsack. After packing his belongings, included, 3 pairs of shorts and trousers, a handful of t-shirts, a thick jacket of his older brother, that was too big for him,a warm wooly hat,$54.37, and his knife . Not a lot for someone who was fending for themselves at the age of seven. But it would last until he could resupply.

Without looking back he walked out of the trailer, heading for the nearest main road. When he reached the edge of the road, a sign caught his sharp eyes.

"Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders"

Was written in huge colourful letters on a nearby billboard. The billboard had a small note in the corner saying

"1 Mile, North."

Clint knew that the circus would be his best bet. Without another thought on the matter, Clint tugged the knapsack tighter over his shoulders and set off towards the circus.

Leaving behind his old life, for a new one. Why did he get the feeling that any life he chose would always be tough and lonely? Breaking out of his musings, he realised that for once he was in control. Even though he wasn't entirely sure what he was in control of he knew he liked it better than the alternative.

Having a choice was always a good thing.

**There we go!**

**leave a review or message me, tell me what you think, what I messed up and how I can improve.**

**Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey! Here's the next chapter, and last of the backstory, after this we will be getting into the action. Please leave a review if you have any suggestion or thoughts on what you think, or ways I can improve. This ones a bit short, but after this , chapters will hopefully be 4,000 words plus.**

Life at Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders was for Clint wasn't easy. Right after he had arrived, he had convinced old man Carson to let him stay with the carnival. In return Clint had to do a mans work . Something he thought was more than fair. Clint was no stranger to hard work,and set off to work every day with gusto. He worked from early in the morning until late afternoon. At the beginning propel would question Clint as to why he was here in a travelling carnival of all places, when he really should have been in school.

Clint always relied in short clipped tones, but not in an overly rude manner. After a while the others just left him be. It was obvious to everyone, that young Clint was a closed off individual.

When he first arrived Clint had been awed by all of the different types of people, and the unique skills each one had. The most noteworthy would be the gymnasts, who would run my, jump and flip all over the place and thrilling the large crowds that would watch. Clint watched as the performers basked in the glory of the roar of the crowd.

Clint's face turned into a grimace. He didn't want to be accepted by anyone, he just wanted to survive. After all that's what he was, a survivor. But what he did do was watch with his sharp eyes, and studied what they did and how they moved. He thought that it could come in useful, so he trained at night by himself. Practicing his balance on the balance beam, his flexibility with a bunch of different stretches that would loosen his muscles, lastly he would try and hold a handstand for as long as he could.

After a short time, he had become very, very good. He was now able to flip across the thin balance beam, without the tiniest hint of fear that he would fall, and on some nights, when it was quiet he would try the high wire. The high wire was about 15m off the ground, and if you fell there was a safety net below.

On his first try he had been comfortable. On his second he had mastered it. He had been almost jogging across the thin metal wire, he was that confident in himself.

And while he enjoyed that, he knew it wasn't his calling. His calling was the bow.

Clint had seen a performer named Trickshot, setting up targets in an open area outside of the main tent. Clint had watched silently, from behind a the flap of the tent, or at least he thought he did, as the man took aim with his bow at target. After he released the arrow, which had landed just inside of the bullseye from 25 metres away, he had turned around.

"You gonna come out here any time soon boy?" Trickshot asked with a southern drawl.

Clint was snapped out of his daze. He had been so mesmerised by the bow and the flight of the arrow. He had felt something inside of him had changed. He felt like for the first time in his life, he was certain of something.

"Well, you gonna say something or not?" Trickshot had asked, with annoyance evident in his voice.

"That bow..., I want you to teach me how to use it." Clint said plainly.

Trickshot raised an eyebrow in question. This kid didn't seen like your average seven year old, he was cold and distant and his eyes were slightly unnerving.

"Teach you huh?, I'll tell ya what kid, if you hit anywhere on that target, I'll teach you."

Clint's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He loved a challenge. He nodded his acceptance, and strode purposely towards the bow.

His small hands clasped around the grip of the bow, Clint's eyes calmed. It just felt like he had found another piece of himself. The bow felt like it belonged in his hands. He reached for an arrow and lined it up then drew back the string. The strength required to pull back the tight string was challenging for his young frame. But he liked it, he liked the feeling of the muscles in his arms and back being worked, but most of all he just loved looking down the sights.

His cold blue eyes locked onto the target 25 metres away. He slowed his breathing as he steadied himself. In his peripheral vision, he was Trickshot leaning against a tree with his arms folded across his chest. A small smirk on his face. Clint blocked all of that out, as he focused 100% of his being into this shot. With one last slow breath he let go of the string, and the arrow was fired.

Clint watched with anticipation as the arrow soared through the air at high speeds. It seemed to travel in slow motion as it sliced through the air. There was silence in the small clearing, sounds of the wind blowing, rustling the leaves was all that could be heard.

Until.

THUNK

The sound was music to Clint's ears. The sound of an arrow hitting its target was the best thing he had ever heard. What made it better was, where it had landed.

"Bullseye" Clint whispered under his breath, as he stared down the sights, looking directly at the arrow imbedded in the centre of the small red circle.

Slow clapping coming from behind him, broke him out of his daze.

"Well boy, I'll be damned. I ain't never seen shootin' like that, from someone so young." Trickshot exclaimed in a loud voice.

Clint's lips twitched into a small smirk.

"I always hit what I aim for." Clint said quietly, not arrogantly, he was just stating a fact.

"Is that so? What makes you think that." Trickshot asked, intrigued by his new young protege.

" Yeah, be it stones, a tennis ball, a knife, I've always hit what I aim for." Clint stated, pride evident in his voice.

Trickshot looked at Clint. His eyes calculating as he did so.

"You ever miss, boy?"

"Never." Clint replied calmly.

"Well damn, you really are something special. Trickshot exclaimed.

"Alright, listen up boy, I'll teach you all I know about a bow and knives. I've been looking for someone to teach my skills to. People think the bow is an archaic weapon, but in the hands of a master, it is just as deadly as any other weapon, if not more so in some cases, I'm pretty sure you'll be one of those cases. So what do ya say, boy? Trickshot asked.

Clint didn't hesitate. He knew what he wanted.

"I accept" Clint said firmly, if you looked closely you could see the happiness behind the walls he had built up.

Clint didn't know it yet, but that decision would change the direction of his life, in an irreversible fashion.

A young man on the cusp of manhood, stood tall with a small bag strapped over his broad, thickly muscled shoulders. He stood at an impressive 6 ft 3" and 240 pounds of pure efficient muscle. He had thick, chorded muscle running along his arms, back and shoulders. With strong legs as a base for his power, he was an impressive specimen for a 17 year old nearing 18. His impressive physique was due to the last 10 years of intense training he had endured, to build up the necessary skills for his future trip.

Clint had been learning from his mentor, turned father figure, Trickshot for 10 years. About 3 years ago he had realised that he couldn't stay with the travelling carnival forever. He would go stir crazy if he had to stay there any longer than necessary. But Trickshot was getting on in his years, and didn't want to leave. So, with the advice of his mentor, they had decided to finish his training before heading off on his own.

Clint didn't know where he was going, but at least it would be a change of scenery. Especially for someone who had spent the last ten years training with a burning passion. Clint was well known in the carnival. He, on rare occasions would demonstrates his skills in a short show. It would consist of Archery, knife throwing and gymnastics mixed into one. Anyone who ever saw him, would watch in awe at the speed and Accuracy he could achieve. The most amazing fact, was that he never missed, not once. It didn't matter if it was arrows or knives. Upside down, 100 metres away or a moving target. Clint Barton always hit what he aimed for.

Clint didn't perform for recognition, he did it so that he could make his shots under pressure. At first it wasn't easy to make his shots hit the bullseye with each shot. It would take 100% concentration to hit it, while normally it was like he was on auto pilot. But after a short amount of time, it was like he has been performing in front of crowds his whole life. Now he didn't bat an eyelash as he quick fired 10 arrows , in as many seconds into a target 100 metres away. With a large crowd watching his every move. That wasn't the only thing he had learned to do, he had practiced blending into any crowd. His self appointed fail was to pickpocket people , take anything valuable for himself and then placing the empty wallets back into their pockets.

But after ever everything was said and done. Clint's best skill was his shooting. He had been practicing with his bow, for at least two hours a day. Sometimes more if he had time. One of the training techniques that he used, was to increase the string tension a small bit every day. Right now, that meant the string had a draw weight of around 250 pounds. This was the main reason why Clint had exceptional strength. Clint is the only one who can draw the string back, even Trickshot can't get string pulled back far enough to fire an arrow.

Clint had started training even more seriously, when he had bought a bow that was his. The bow was bought with money, he had been earning and stealing since he was 7.

His new bow really was beautiful. It was black in colour, sleek, incredibly durable and with the increased string tension, could fire an arrow almost a thousand yards. His quiver, which was built out of the same material as his bow, could hold around 50 arrows.

That wasn't the only thing he had learnt, about three years after Trickshot agreed to train him. A shaolin monk who had payed a visit to the America, and had winded up in the circus. He had been performing jaw dropping martial arts. As soon as Clint had seen what he could do, he had demanded that he teach him. At first there was a problem, as the monk, who was named Li Xian, has terrible English. So Clint helped him learn English as he learned Chinese and martial arts. Clint had worn him down to stay and teach him, but only if he visited his monastery in China in the future. He had quickly agreed. A side trip to china didn't sound too bad at all, especially if he got to improve his skills while he was there.

After 7 years of brutal training Li had considered him his equal, and had said that he had the potential to become one of the greatest warriors to ever live. Li had said that he would get even better, when he fought real enemies. After facing the same opponent for so long it was becoming less and less of a challenge, as he grew better. As you can only practice so much, before you have to really defend yourself in a hostile situation.

And now we find Clint, clasping arms with his mentor.

"Good luck boy, and don't get killed," taunted Trickshot with a smirk on his face.

"I don't plan to," Clint shot back. Fire burning in his eyes.

Silence claimed the two, as they got lost in their thoughts.

With one last meaningful look, Clint set off.

He knew where he was going.

For a second time, Clint was leaving a place he called home. At least this time he had scary skills to protect himself with, earned over a gruelling 10 year period. But Clint wouldn't change a thing. For the first time, he felt like he was really in control. Making your own choices was always a good thing.

He learnt that ten years ago.

**Well, there we go, chapter 2 is up. Please leave a review if you have anything to day or Wouk like to see, or if there are ways I can improve!. Thanks for reading.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Next chapter is up! Getting the story rolling now. Any feedback is welcome, and if you could review and leave your thoughts on how I can improve, or what you'd like to for reading!**

A lone figure ,perched precariously on the edge of an abandoned warehouse, scanned the nearby alley, maybe one hundred and fifty metres away. His glacial blue eyes took in all of his surroundings, which included his next target, who was down in the middle of the dimly lit alley with a few goons as back up. Clint barely remembered his targets name,or what he had done to deserve a hit from the most notorious assassin in the world for the past few years. Clint didn't hesitate, he took a deep breath, smoothly nocked a pitch black carbon fibre arrow, aimed and fired. Like each time before, his arrow hit his target exactly where he had aimed, right between the eyes. Clint usually used his arrows as a trademark of sorts, business was more than good already, but still any publicity is good publicity is good in this game.

His targets goons quickly scampered into hiding, shouting hysterically in Russian, fearfully wondering where the shooter was. Clint watched this with critical eyes. They were making too much noise, they might alert the locals who would undoubtedly call the cops. In which case he would have to hurry his escape, Clint didn't like to rush that sort of thing. Clint liked to be in control, so with five quickly nocked arrows and subsequent releases,and five separate thumps of bodies hitting the cold concrete, silence engulfed the now lifeless alley.

"Perfect as usual ," Clint thought with a small sigh, if you weren't paying attention you would have missed it.

On that note, Clint decked out, head to toe in black combat gear, made his way to ground level where he had a motorcycle to take him out of the City. Moscow was always sub zero at this time of year, so Clint quickly made his way out of the city at speed.

"Another day, another job," Clint thought silently.

It had spun out of control, so fast for Clint it made his head spin. After leaving the circus he had traveled the length and breadth of the U.S, his physical size made him appear several years older, so no one questioned him. He had then decided to honour his promise to master Li, he caught a flight to China, and followed the directions he had been given by master Li. China was the first country he had been to outside of the states, so it was quite an experience for a seventeen, nearly eighteen year old kid. He quickly found the monastery where the shaolin monks lived and trained. Master Li had introduced him to his fellow masters, he explained the training, he had under gone, they were more than impressed. They quickly resumed his training, also they insisted that he learned Chinese, saying that it would be useful in his travels. Clint quickly agreed. Knowing that any knowledge was good knowledge.

Several months had passed, he had turned eighteen, and his training was complete, miraculously he had become fluent in Chinese, not many people could boast such a feat. Just before he had left he was able to hold off multiple masters at once without taking any damage, whilst dishing out his own. They had said he was a once in a generation fighter, which was the highest praise he could receive. By the time he left, Clint was 6"4 and two hundred and fifty pounds of solid, incredibly strong muscle. The training the monks had put him through turned his body into a lean, mean fighting machine. The training was more than just physical. The monks had taught him how to be calm in the most trying of circumstances, patience, and helped him become adaptable to any situation.

He had left the temple and had made his way to Bangkok. He hitch hiked his way to the city. Shortly after arriving, he had made himself aware of any potential threats in the area. He didn't want to be caught unaware if trouble came looking for him, or just as likely if he looked for it himself.

Clint was making his way across one of the more dangerous parts of town, the sun had set and the humid weather made the night slightly uncomfortable. Clint was passing an underpass, fully armed with his bow and quiver, when he decided that the underpass was a good place for some target practice, Clint was used to firing his bow for at least two hours a day to keep his skills sharp, he had set up targets at varying distances and different sizes. Clint began taking shots from a stationary position, but soon began running through his makeshift course. After an hour Clint had felt eyes on him as he practiced, he didn't pay any real head, until he felt a presence approaching.

The presence turned out to be a man in his mid thirties, average height and slim build with dark hair and dragon tattoo sleeves. Clint instantly recognised them as triad tattoos.

"You are extremely good with that bow, I've never seen anything like it." The Asian man said, awe evident in his voice.

"I'm good enough." Clint replied gruffly, he wasn't sure what this guy was getting at.

"You didn't miss. Not once! I was watching for more than half an hour, you hit every target." Even as he said it ', it was like he didn't believe it. He paused for a moment, he looked towards the targets as he thought.

He quickly shook himself from his musings, straightening his back and taking on the look of a business man.

"I could use a man with your skills," he said mysteriously." There's a ...Problem I need help with, I think you could help me out.

Clint narrowed his eyes at him, eyeing him carefully he said ." Well, if it pays well I might be interested."

The small man smiled. "Oh it pays well, very well."

"What's the job?" Clint asked.

"It's an elimination."

Clint paused, did he really want to go down this road? He knew he'd be crossing a line that he could never go back on. At the minute he had no plan, he had no idea where his life was going, the only thing he loved and was good at was fighting.  
Be that hand to hand or ranged combat. Assassinations were a big deal, sane people would have ran like the fires of hell were licking at their heels if they were in this situation. Clint Barton was not sane, how could he be? He had seen his family die before his eyes. He has ended his fathers life. At seven years old. Seven. No, Clint Barton is definitely not sane.

" I accept." Cling said firmly.  
"How much do I get paid?" He asked as a second thought.

"Fifty thousand dollars," His now, employer said." Come with me and I'll brief you on your target."

Several days later, after being briefed on his target, who happened to be an American arms dealer in the area who had pissed off the triads. His name was Christopher Green. After studying his target, and studying his movements, he tracked him to where he was staying, a small, supposedly, safe house on the outskirts of the city.

Clint had been on the fire escape of a building about 400 metres away from the targets safe house. He had a clear view of the window leading into the bedroom. It was just a matter of time before he came into view. Clint was armed with his carbon fibre bow and arrows. He was outfitted with black combat pants and a short sleeved flak jacket, as it was still warm outside. Clint's attention didn't waver for the two hours he was up there, because he knew that if he started slacking off he could lose his window of opportunity. Five minutes later Clint's target came into view. He knew that he only had a couple of seconds before his target was out if view again. Clint's mind went through some last minute calculations before he nocked his arrow and let fly. Satisfied, he took one last look, a deep breath and let fly.

Clint didn't really have to look. He knew, that like every time before his arrow hit its mark. He watched as the arrow soared through the night sky, punched through the thin single glazed window, and imbedded itself in the heart of his target. He was dead before he hit the floor. Clint didn't feel remorse, it was just a job, nothing personal.

Clint made his way to ground level silently using the fires escape, once on solid ground he exited the area on a motorcycle that had been left for him by his employers. Clint was long gone when the body of Christopher Green was found the next day.

A few days later, fifty thousand dollars was wired to his account. By then Clint had, had another employer looking for his skills. Word travels fast.

That's how the next five years went, Clint had become known on the black market. He was known only as Hawkeye, a name whispered fearfully in the under belly of society. He took jobs from every corner of the globe. Some were simple, just a single target, which mean one arrow lodged in the chest of whoever was unlucky enough to be in Hawkeye's sights. Other jobs involve him taking down entire bases or cartels. On a few occasions , mostly in less powerful counties he was the cause for war. After taking out a head of state, or someone of equal importance. During this time Hawkeye had become the most dangerous assassin on the face of the earth. He had hundreds of confirmed kills, and hundreds more speculated to belong to his name.  
Clint had become numb, numb to death and pain. He had shut himself out. He was in too deep. He was in so deep that he didn't realise that he wanted to find a away out. He had accumulated millions upon millions of dollars over those five years, his services were not cheap. With that money he had accumulated safe houses spread out all over the world. He realised that he didn't want to live life where he had to watch his back twenty four seven. He wanted to start again but he wasn't sure how.

Phil Coulson walked through the halls of a mostly empty SHIELD hallway. He stood roughly at 5"11 with an athletic build. His brown hair was receding, and an impassive look on his face. He was carrying a brown folder in his left hand, while his right swung as he walked. He came to an abrupt halt at the end of the corridor, in front of a door with the words,  
"Directors Office" written across it. He knocked on the door with two solid thumps. After a second of silence a deep voice from within called "Enter."

Phil opened the door and turned to face the rooms other occupant. He came face to face with his boss, Director Fury, one of the most powerful men in the world. Fury was a dark skinned man of 6"2 with an athletic build, he wore a black trench coat, black pants and boots. His look wouldn't be complete without his bald head and his black eye patch. Needless to say he was an intimidating man. He turned his eagled eyed gaze to his right hand man.  
"Phil, how can I help you?"

"Could I have a word?" Phil asked.

Fury eyed the folder in Phil's hands before answering. "Go ahead Phil," he relied taking a seat behind his desk.

Phil cleared his throat before speaking.

"Have you heard of Hawkeye, sir?"

Fury raised an eyebrow, a huge sign that he was surprised. After all he was a spy, _THE_ spy.

"Of course I've heard of him, he's killed more people in the last five years than anyone I've ever seen. The mans a killing machine." Fury answered heatedly.

"Precisely sir, and I would rather have him with us rather than against us. I've looked into him sir, the kids had a shitty life, and that's all he is sir a kid. He's only twenty three. Barely any records from his early life, but the best I can figure out is that he never went to school, never had a stable life at home, never had anyone he could trust. After the age of seven he falls off the grid completely, no trace at all. We can help him sir! We can have him on our side." Phil said passionately.

Fury looked at his right hand man, wariness evident in his lone eye.

"You are aware that the council are thinking of putting a hit on this guy." Fury asked steadily.

A firm nod was his response." Whoever they send will die sir, just like anyone else whose tried to take him out."

Fury grudgingly nodded, he knew that was the truth, Hawkeye was too good.

"Well, what do you propose Agent Coulson? Fury asked.

Phil didn't hesitate." Let me go after him sir."

"Agent Coulson an extremely skilled field agent you might be, but there's no way you can take Hawkeye down!" Fury said with an edge to his voice.

Phil shook his head. "I know that sir, I haven't got a death wish. I just need to be able to talk to him, so I can give him our proposal."

"Are you sure about this kid Couslon?" Fury asked warily, if this went wrong, it could go _seriously_ wrong.

"Yes sir, he could be the best agent SHIELD will ever know." Phil said calmly, and with assurance.

Fury shook his head, a small smirk on his face, so small you'd need a microscope to see it. He knew Coulson wouldn't back down, he was well known in SHIELD for bending, or in this case throwing normal recruitment measures out the window.

"Since you're so adamant about this kid, tell me everything you know about him."

Instead Phil opened, then slid the folder he had been holding on to across the desk, into Fury's hands.

Name: Clint Barton

Age:23(By our closest estimate)

Alias: Hawkeye

Weapons: Primarily Modified Carbon fibre bow. Is also known to use pistols as sidearms. Reports show is also unnaturally proficient with sniper rifles.

Skill set: Clint Barton is known as a grandmaster marksman. He is said to have perfect aim, this is speculation, but we can find no evidence to disprove the claim. Hawkeye is known to be an exceptionally skilled acrobat, strategist and hand to hand combatant.

Kill count: SHIELD analysts have confirmed more than 741 deaths around the world that belong to Hawkeye, with hundreds more unconfirmed.

Hawkeye's file is noticeably thin, which is due to Hawkeye evading detection for the past five years.

Assessment: Hawkeye is an internationally known assassin, feared all over the world for his unwavering aim, and mission success rate. No target of Hawkeye has survived, which breeds fear in criminals who have a target on their back.

Classified as: Hyper Lethal Vector,

Fury closes the folder, a grimace on his face. Damn! 'Kids only twenty three and has more confirmed kills than anyone on SHIELD's database.

"Coulson 'Hyper Lethal Vector' is that even a real classification? Fury asked, almost grinning.

"The highest one we have sir, he's the only person we've ever had to label as one." Coulson answered dryly.

Coulson paused for a moment before asking,"Permission granted for attempted recruitment of Hawkeye sir?

"You're funeral Couslon." Fury replied deadpan.

"Trust me on this sir, I have a good feeling about this." Phil said before quickly leaving the room.

" I hope to god you do Coulson, I hope to god you do."


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, here's the next chapter, the real bulk of the story starts in the next one or two chapters. Backstory is pretty much out of the way now. I'd love if you'd review and share your thoughts and opinions on the story so far, my writing and how I can improve it. Constructive criticism please. Or something you'd like to see or are unsure of. Thanks for reading.**

Clint had been laying low for the last couple of weeks, he had wanted to clear his mind. He had tried to figure out how he had become the person he is now. He thought about the countless people he had killed, mostly in cold blood. He remembered a few of the important names, but most just blurred into obscurity. He did however remember his exact kill count. Not something he liked to dwell on, as it was astronomically high, even worse when you take into account his age. He had thought of what he had wanted to do for the rest of his life, he knew he couldn't be a contract assassin for the rest of his life. One of the problems he had was that most if not all of his skills could be used for killing people. Not really ideal in a civilian environment. He had gotten into this world because he was young, and unsure of what he wanted to do with his life. Now, he knew that it was time for a change. He had more money than he would ever need, so that wasn't an issue. The issue was that he had no idea what to do with himself. For his entire adult life he has been the worlds most efficient killer. How could someone survive when their assassin could pick you off from a mile away with one hundred percent precision? It didn't matter if you hired a small private army, because if 'The Hawk' was after you that was it, your life was over. That's why the entire criminal world was terrified of the man known as Hawkeye.

Entire criminal organisations had been singlehandedly wiped off the face of the earth because of Hawkeye. So, yes, the underworld were right to be extremely wary of Hawkeye.

Now Clint finds himself, in his penthouse apartment in New York. The apartment was extremely luxurious, Clint didn't really care, but it was a nice change from growing up in the circus sleeping on the cold, hard ground inside of a tent. He had spent the last few hours just staring out of the window, watching as the rain drops rolled down the window in front of him. Even in his own safe house he was on guard. In his line of work you couldn't afford not to be. Several times in the past there were assassination attempts on him, obviously unsuccessful but still enough for him to be cautious. He wasn't going to make a rookie mistake like that. Hell no,He was a professional dammit!

That's one thing about Clint, even though he kept his emotions locked down almost the entire time, there were moments like that when his pride made itself known. Clint was strangely proud of his title, his reputation. He liked walking into a room and watch everyone tense up and listen to his name be whispered fearfully. He had earned that, even though he knew that earning that reputation came at the cost of countless lives, some guilty, some innocent. He wasn't sure which way the scale tipped anymore. He had stopped himself from caring if his target was innocent or guilty a long time ago. For a while, it was all about the next job.

Clint knew he could never really get away from this life, he was too skilled, too well known. He was always going to be involved in some way with this type of life. That didn't really bother him, because he knew he wouldn't want to live when he wasn't able to use his bow as a weapon on a regular basis, or engage in hand to hand combat.

He lived for those moments. Those moments were what made his other wise ice cold self,feel something.

But most of all Clint was lonely, even though he would never admit that out loud. He hadn't had someone care for him his adult life, sure he had Trickshot and master Li but he wore a mask when dealing with them. He just wanted to learn everything they could teach him without any attachments, they could never understand him. How could they? his life was surrounded by death. He didn't want to risk letting anyone in, after all they could tear him apart from the inside if he did. So he closed himself off, just like he had been doing since he was seven years old.

Clint let out an almost in audible sigh.

The life of an assassin wasn't easy, it weighed on your soul, your very being. There was only a handful of people in the world who understand what he felt right now. Most of all he just wanted someone to understand.

Little did he know, and he wouldn't for a few years to come, that there was red headed Russian thousands of miles away thinking and hoping for the same thing.

Phil Coulson has been a man on a mission these last couple of weeks, he has been working himself to exhaustion on a daily basis. Only excessive amounts of strong black coffee has been keeping him going. Phil's eyes had just shut as a beep from the black laptop sitting on his desk startled him. His eyes snapped open as he scanned the screen. His bleary eyes widened as the search on his screen finally came up with some answers. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he gathered his jacket and his findings and took off down the hall. With urgency and excitement evident in his usually impassive and professional eyes.

Within a minute he had arrived at Director Fury's office. With a sharp knock which earned an 'Enter' from within. Entering the office Phil saw his boss standing with his back towards him, arms crossed loosely behind his back, staring out at at the New York skyline. He turned as he heard Phil enter, his face impassive. He raised an eyebrow, Phil took this signal as his queue to start talking.

Composing himself, straightening his ruffled suit jacket he spoke with relief and excitement in his voice.

" I found him sir."

"Who did you find Phil?"Fury asked, even though he knew the answer, Fury was strange like that.

"Hawkeye sir, I've tracked him down." Phil replied, pride in his voice.

"Where is he?" Fury asked curiously.

"Right here in New York." Phil said.

That, Fury didn't know.

"Is he here for a contract? Fury asked warily. If he was that meant some poor bastard would have a carbon fibre arrow or high powered round slam into their chest in the coming hours.

"No, we tracked him to an apartment, he has no idea were keeping tabs on him. He's barely left the apartment"

"Vacation?" Fury asked incredulously. Not taking the option seriously.

World renowned assassins don't just take vacations, they work throughout the year. There's no rest bite for the world's bogeymen.

" I have no idea what he's up to, but I highly doubt it's a vacation. Phil said assuredly.

"How do you want to about this Phil? Fury asked carefully.

"Same as last time sir, I want to meet him face to face, and give him our proposal."

Fury paused for a moment," You sure Phil?"

"Yes sir." Phil said immediately.

"Permission granted." Fury said slowly, a small sigh escaping his lips. He didn't want one of his best agents to be murdered by an unstable assassin.

Phil's eyes widened slightly, it was finally time.

"Thank you sir, I won't let you down." Phil said passionately.

"It's not me you have to worry about it's the council." Fury said seriously, warning flashing in his eyes.

" I won't sir." Phil said plainly, fully confident with himself.

"You're wasting daylight agent, get a move on." Fury barked.

"On my way sir." Phil grinned.

"And don't die!"

Within twenty four hours Phil had assembled a small team and had briefed them on what was happening. The plan was simple, Phil would go in and talk, the field agents who he chose to come with him would keep an eye on things from the rooftop across the street. Phil didn't want to risk any agents, Hawkeye was extremely, extremely dangerous, so he didn't want to risk anything. He didn't want to bring any agents at all, but fury was adamant.

Phil stepped into the lobby of the apartment building, where they believed Hawkeye to be, and strolled into the elevator. Once inside he pressed the button for top floor, stood back and crossed his arms behind his back. The ride up only took a few minutes, but to Phil it was an age. This meeting could make or break his career. He was taking a huge gamble on an unknown variable, he just prayed his gut was right. The elevator chimed and the metallic doors opened to reveal a hallway. The hallway was painted a cream colour with pieces of expensive looking furniture occupying parts of the hall for decoration. There was only one door on the floor, which Phil slowly made his way to. With one last deep breath he knocked firmly on the door. The silence that echoed was deafening to Phil's ears. After a few seconds Phil saw the light from underneath the door shift, which meant that there was a figure approaching the door. Slowly a small click was heard and the door opened a fraction,enough for him to look into a small section of the room, but he couldn't see the person behind the door.

"Can I help you?" The person behind the door said, voice low and rumbling.

Phil cleared his throat.

"My name is Agent Coulson, I'd like to talk to you for a moment on behalf of my employers." Phil said professionally.

After a quick pause the door was opened fully. "Come in Agent Coulson" the voice said calmly.

Phil quickly entered and got his first look in person at Hawkeye.

First things first, the young man was big. Like seriously line backer big.

At least 6",4 and he had to be around two hundred and fifty pounds, and by the looks of his arms where the hoodie he was wearing was rolled up, each one of those pounds looked like solid muscle mass. He was wearing a black hoodie with navy fatigues. He had spiked blonde hair and a face that would be considered handsome enough to be a male model. Not that Phil swung that way, he was simply making a professional observation. His eyes though, was what had anyone besides Phil and a very small percentage of the worlds population, sweating bullets. They were the bluest eyes he had ever seen. They looked almost unearthly, his eyes were like two pools of glacial ice. They held promise of what he could do, and what he has done. They didn't belong on a twenty three year old kid. They spoke of the horrors he has seen and committed, Frankly they would greatly unnerve anyone who looked into their depths. If that wasn't enough his body looked like a coiled spring, ready to snap into action at a moments notice. He moved like a predator, controlled, measured and methodical. He had an aura around him, seemingly encompassing the room.

Phil knew that he couldn't show weakness.

To do that was to sign your death warrant. Hawkeye didn't take any prisoners, with the smallest sign of weakness, he would exploit it for his benefit. Phil steeled himself as he looked up into the eyes of one of the worlds greatest killers.

"The organisation I work for has a proposal for you."

Clint looked into the eyes of Agent Coulson, he was trying to figure him out. He didn't look like the average person who came looking for his services. He was dressed in a black suit, with black sunglasses hanging out of a pocket. He held himself like a soldier, professional and disciplined. He recognised his threat level, but he was largely ignoring it. The way his eyes scanned his person when he first entered meant that he probably knew that he was armed, he would have been a crap agent if he hadn't.

"And what would that proposal be, Agent Coulson? Clint asked with caution.

It was never wise to jump to conclusions, Agent Coulson may not even know who he really was. Always keep the enemy guessing, play dumb if you have to.

Coulson's sharp gaze landed on Clint, it was if to say 'Cut the bullshit.'

"My, our proposal is different than anything you've ever been offered." Phil said professionally.

"We don't want to hire you for a one time deal, we are offering you a place in our organisation." He continued.

Clint raised an eyebrow, this was definitely different to what usually happened. What was usually the case, was a picture slid across in front of him, a large wad of cash and a deadline.

"Who do you work for, C.I.A, F.B.I? Clint asked warily, it was never a good thing when there was this much attention on him. He didn't want a repeat of the last time Hawkeye and those two agency's crossed. Let's just say it didn't work out well for the two agencies.

"I work for an organisation called S.H.I.E.L.D." Coulson said, straightening his suit jacket slightly.

Clint didn't show it, but he was quite surprised, he had never heard of SHIELD, and he made it his business to find out as much as he could about government agencies around the globe.

"We are aware of your skill set, we are also aware of the price on your head. We want you on our side, we can protect you from your enemies and every mission you are assigned will be detailed. No more being left in the dark, you'll have a reason, you'll be saving lives." Phil said confidently.

Clint stared at him for a few minutes, mentally reviewing his offer. Clint didn't know how Coulson knew so much about how he felt, it was quite unnerving to say the least. But as he thought he realised that this could possibly be his only way out of the life he's living now. He had been hoping for an opportunity, and suddenly one just dropped into his lap. Maybe it was a sign. This might be his only chance, he'd be a fool to pass it up. If it didn't work out he could disappear, like he had done in the past. Slightly turning he stared out the nearest window, gazing upon a rainy New York night, eyes taking in everything. Eyes narrowing for a moment.

After a brief pause Clint looked back at Couslon, he knew he would accept, just not right now, he had a few loose ends to tie up.

" I want in, but not right now. "

"A weeks time and I'll be ready." He said, waiting to see if Coulson would cause any waves.

He didn't.

He wanted to see if he caught his unspoken message.

'I've got to kill some people.'

By the narrowing of his eyes and an almost non existent nod he knew he did.

"This day week, midday, come to this location."Phil said calmly sliding a business card to him with an address written in small bold print, next to an emblem of an eagle in front of a shield.

"One week. Don't be late." Phil said said walking towards the door.

Before his hand curled around the brass doorknob, Clint spoke.

"Next time don't bring a rookie sniper team. I don't like being watched, if you want to talk, We'll talk. If you want to fight, we can fight. He said warningly.

Phil was very surprised, that team weren't rookies. They were over three hundred metres away,on a dark rainy night, and they were spotted in the few seconds when he had faced the window. He acknowledged the threat, but that didn't stop him, he continued as if it never happened.

"The name Hawkeye is a well earned I see."Phil said, impressed.

Clint said nothing, he just kept staring straight into his eyes.

With one last glance he turned to the door.

"Good bye, Clint Barton." He said as he closed the door after himself.

Clint was left standing, hands in his hoodies baggy pockets. in his upscale penthouse, with a small smirk gracing his usually emotionless features.

Agent Couslon knew his name. That meant they had a file on him. They had done their homework it would seem. At least he wouldn't be working for idiots. He could live with that, and Agent Coulson was an interesting individual, smart, well trained and seemingly unflappable. He would enjoy trying to figure him out, what made him tick, his weakness'. He snapped himself out of his train of thought, Coulson wasn't a target. It was going to be hard being around people who he didn't need to kill. It would take time for him to come to terms with everything.

But, he had to.

This was his second chance, the only way out of his current state of just existing rather than living. He hasn't lived in a long, long time, maybe it was time for a change.

Still he couldn't jump to conclusions right away. That could get him killed. He would take everything,one day at a time.

Right now though, he had a few loose ends to tie up.

After all Hawkeye was off the market,that would cause stirrings all around the criminal world.


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's the next chapter. The back story is finished now, all future chapters will be Hawkeye working with SHIELD. I'd love If people reviewed and left their opinions, if you have a constructive criticism I'm all ears! Thanks for reading!**

The humid weather was something Clint was used to by now. He had spent enough time in this city for his liking over the years. If he had his way this would be the last time. He had killed too many people in this city, well he had killed a lot of people in lots of cities but this one stood out in his mind. After all Bangkok was where it had all started for him.

This was the place where his life was changed irreversibly. He walked out of this place a murderer five years ago, now he's walking back in a mass murderer. A grim change for sure. When he first arrived he was a marksman of the highest order and a martial artist of which the likes are rarely seen. Although he had those skills, at the time they were unrefined. Never used in combat. Now five years later those skills are polished, and he has, not to beat around the bush, become death on legs.

His senses and his mind are sharper. His skills fine tuned. His body trained to the peak of human performance. With his constant training his speed and athleticism were almost freakish for his size. At 6'4" and over two hundred and fifty pounds he would be considered a very large man. Add in his exceptional strength, from years of pulling a bow string with a tension of two hundred and fifty pounds, and holding it comfortably whilst drawing a bead on his target. Which left him with strength that bellied his already large frame.

He seemed to be in a constant state of hyper awareness, not letting the smallest of details go unnoticed. Most likely to due to his years of watching his back 24/7, where the smallest mistake would cost him his life. He could read people like normal people could read a book. That's not to say he only improved physically over the five years. No,for it soon became apparent to him that his brains were just as important to staying alive as his brawn. He had travelled the world in those five years,and after picking up Chinese whilst training with the Shaolin monks he had realised he had a talent for picking up languages in a very short period of time. So,he made it his goal to learn as many languages as he could. At the minute he could speak fourteen languages fluently, and had enough to get by in another dozen. All in all, he is now of the most dangerous people to ever walk the earth.

Right now Clint was in Bangkok for one reason, and one reason only. To make a statement.

His first contract was here, this was where it all began for him. He had been hired by the triads, and they didn't let go of him for years. They quickly realised that they had their hands on an assassin of which had never been seen in the modern world. He was too valuable, too dangerous to have on the other side. So they tried to keep their 'Hawk' on a leash. They used him and his reputation to instil fear for any who opposed them. For those four years under the thumb of the triads he didn't really mind, he was paid more money than he could ever spend, drugs, women and alcohol had been shoved in his face. He had been immersed in that lifestyle and there seemed to be no way out. Not that he wanted one, at the time he had everything he thought he could ever want.

But it was during a mission in Kiev when everything changed.

-Flashback-

He had been tasked with eliminating a government officials who was making life difficult for the Russian mob, who the triads had working relations with. In a show of good faith he had been sent in. The mission wasn't particularly difficult, in fact as far as most of Clint's missions go, it was a breeze. There was a gala taking place, Clint had spotted his target early in the night, and had not lost sight of him. He was waiting for the perfect moment to release his arrow. He had a bead in him the whole time, but there was too many people in sight, he didn't feel like making a seen, so he had to wait until it was quiet. The moment came when his target, Dmitri, something or other, it didn't really matter, stepped outside for a smoke whilst on the phone.

Clint had his arrow nocked and trained on his head, when the sounds of hand to hand combat and the unmistakable sound of semi automatic gunfire broke the relative silence. His eyes snapped to another exit, where a lone young woman in an elegant green gown backed out of the exit, fists raised in the direction she had come from. She was cursing in Russian he guessed from what he could hear, as she came into view.

Clint's eyes took in every detail of the situation and the woman in a split second.  
The first thing he noticed was that this woman was easily the most physically beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. She was about 5'6" with curves in all the right places, as the dress she wore clung to her like a second skin. Her blood red hair cascaded down her back, with her curls just reaching the bottom of her back .  
Her pale white skin was in stark contrast to her hair. Her face was perfectly smooth, ruby lips, small nose, striking emerald eyes and well groomed eyes brows. In a word she was breathtaking.

The second thing he noticed was that she was not an ordinary woman. She held herself with the grace of a seasoned fighter, she strode with confidence in herself and her abilities. The muscle concealed under her dress was muscle built up over years of intense training, could be seen with the trained eye bunching and coiling in preparation for what was to come. He noticed as her eyes scanned her immediate surroundings, taking in everything that may be of use, or harm to her. He watched as her eyes refocused on the door she had come through.

Clint watched as six armed men, kitted out in grey and and black combat gear. They wasted no time and quickly trained their weapons, varying from pistols to Uzis on the beauty's head.

Clint saw the woman's eyes assess the situation, and unlike 99% of the worlds population in that situation, she didn't panic. In fact she didn't even bat an eyelash.

Clint was very intrigued.

He was right with his assumption that this wasn't any ordinary woman.

Because know he knew what she was, she was an assassin. Just like him.

He realised that she must of been here for a hit or possibly to gather information. A small but genuine smirk stretched across his lips. He had never watched another assassin, and he was intrigued to see what she would do. He wasn't concerned about the six men, they were of no relevance to him. As long as his target, who was rooted to the same spot since this had all happened, died tonight with an arrow in his chest all was good.

He listened as the thugs spoke in Russian giving away the fact that they weren't locals.

( The pretty spider shows her face after all.) The leader of the thugs growled out in Russian.

The redhead stayed silent and stared blankly at him. Showing no emotion in a situation like this was smart. It was obvious she had been in situations like this plenty of times before.

The guard, angered by the lack of response, twisted his pistol so that it was sideways and parallel to the ground still aimed at her head.

A voice in Clint's head recalled a memory of something similar happening in a movie he had seen. He pictured Steve Carrell frantically screaming "Kill shot! That's a kill shot! He smirked as he compared the two situations.

Let it be said that Hawkeye wasn't sane in any way shape or form.

She wasn't fazed one bit and within a moments notice she had jumped into action. She was a whirlwind of arms and legs as she hurled herself around the alley. Taking down one with a roundhouse kick to the head of her first assailant, and an elbow followed a punch to the throat of her second, two down. They weren't moving, the first may have had a snapped neck, and the other seemed to have had his trachea pulverised.

The remaining four guards began to try and crowd her in. Guns drawn and firing wildly they were trying not to make the same mistake as their comrades as to not get too close. It was obvious that they weren't highly trained at all as their aim wasn't good at all. They seemed to try and implement the 'Spray and Pray' technique. Which at the best of times was ineffective, against an assassin it was futile.

She quickly took cover and assessed her situation. He could see that she knew her first trick wasn't going to work again. Clint could see that the remaining thugs weren't going to mess around, they were going to try and kill her while they had the chance. So could she. Again she took off, this time to find some sturdier cover, as the plywood she was using was riddled with as she slid behind the nearby wall a hail of bullets flew over her head.

One catching her left arm. She growled but she didn't let it affect her concentration, as she knew she wasn't out of the woods yet.

Clint watched as her beautiful face curled up into a viscous snarl. A snarl of anger as well as pain. Clint knew what that felt like, he had been shot more times than he'd like to remember.

At that moment Clint for possibly the first time in his life, decided to do something good. Well, If you consider killing four thugs a good deed. But hey, baby steps. When he looked back on his actions later on, he realised that he had acted because he could relate to the female assassin in the alley. He has had so many assassins come looking for his head. He knew what it felt like, and he felt something strange as he looked into her piercing green eyes. He felt a strange compulsion to help this redheaded assassin he had encountered.

Four arrows within the same amount of seconds, had been knocked and fired over the one hundred metre distance from where he was perched on a roof across the dimly lit street. He watched as each pitch black arrow found their target, and buried themselves into the throat or chest of the thugs. To finish off the everything, one last arrow was knocked and fired, piercing the his assigned target, Dmitri, right between the eyes. Dmitri didn't move since he had stepped outside for a smoke, frozen with fear. He fell to the ground like a puppet who had its strings cut.

Just like that, there was another five names on his hit list in as many seconds. A didn't care though, he felt as if he was protecting something. A feeling he had beech as before. It left him confused as he reviewed his actions, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. His job here was done, now, he had to get the hell out of dodge.

Natalia Romanova, twenty year old Russian assassin had her head on a swivel as she watched all of the would be assassins drop to the ground around her, dead as dead could be. She was momentarily surprised by the weapon of choice, she had never seen a bow and arrow to be used in a real life combat situation. What made it even more intriguing was the speed and accuracy of which the arrows were fired. She had never seen anything like it. One minute she was sliding to take cover behind a nearby concrete wall, the next, five thuds of bodies hitting the floor in extremely quick concession.

Trained eyes took in everything, tracking the the direction, trajectory and distance of the arrows fired. She came to the conclusion that the shooter had to have been more than one hundred metres away.

Extremely impressive shooting.

She glanced up to her left, eyes focused in on the roof across the street, where she had calculated the arrows to have originated from.

Her green eyes caught a sign of movement perched on the roof. Her keen eyes took in the crouched figure of a male, due to body type and size she was able to calculate that. She was too far away to be able to see the figure clearly. The shadow moved again, this time she was able to make out a hood covering his the majority of his face, and a ski mask which concealed his neck and jaw. Just as the figure moved again, moving slightly closer to a light source, she was able to see unearthly blue eyes with darkness swirling within their depths staring at her. It felt like those eyes could look into her soul. She couldn't see his face but she was positive there was a smirk plastered onto his face as they made brief eye contact. With that he gave a mock salute and disappeared into the night like a wraith. One second he was there, the next he had blended into the darkness, like he belonged there.

And just like that, he was gone. Natalia had to blink twice and glance back at the arrows embedded in their targets to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.

Natalia was intrigued, very intrigued.

Natalia liked to be aware of all players in the game. Judging by what she saw, she was almost 100% sure that she knew who she had just encountered.

'The infamous Hawkeye exists after all. Looks like the reports were accurate. We thought he might have been a myth. He's beyond lethal.' Natalia thought.

She knew that she could have been offed just as those thugs in the alley. She hadn't even known he was there. Also the fact that he killed the thugs chasing after her, and then killed a man standing at the exit from the building. This told her a few things. His target was the man at the exit. He had chosen to help her out by killing the thugs and also he had chosen not to kill her. And he more than likely that she was an assassin too. Interesting indeed.

She hadn't even sensed his presence, not many people in the world could go undetected by the Black Widow. She would have to up her game. She had never encountered anyone who was as dangerous as the rumours made out Hawkeye to be. Natalia took that as a challenge.

Natalia loved a challenge.

-Present-

After that mission Clint had reevaluated his life. He decided that he had had enough. Working for the triads wasn't working for him anymore. He had been given target after target, day after day. He had shut himself out. He wanted to take back the control that he had relinquished to his employers. He broke away form the triads after the mission in Kiev. He took another mission as cover and disappeared after he had killed his target and the money was wired to his account as per usual. But he never arrived back in Bangkok. He had vanished into the underground and stayed in safe houses that he had accumulated quietly over the years. away from the triads.

He had made contacts with many different people in different counties all over the world. With this network of contacts he was able to establish himself again on the black market, but this time with himself calling the shots. After a while he was back doing what he was best at, shooting.

The triads were livid when they realised that their weapon had abounded them. They quickly put a huge price on his head. Which was the reason for all of the attempted assassinations on him within the last year.

Now, he was back in Bangkok to take care of loose ends. The man who had been his superior for his tenure as a hired gun for the triads was known as 'The White Tiger'. Clint had never been given his real name, he just called him 'Boss'. He had found out that the 'Boss' had ordered the hit on him shortly after his disappearance. Clint knew that the 'Boss' was responsible for lots of terrible things, so he ordering a hit on a rogue operative would be considered tame.

That's why he was here, as usual perched on a ledge, in the middle of the night, arrow tip trained on the top floor of an urban skyscraper. The floor was the only one with lights on as all of the people had gone home for the night. The only people their was guards posted outside the entrance on the ground floor, and at different intervals throughout the top floor. Protecting the room where a circular table with a dozen or so well dressed men.

Clint mentally scoffed. How stupid were they? The entire board room was visible through the glass panels, that allowed an unobstructed view of all the goings on.  
He recognised the majority of the people I the room, but the face he was looking for was sitting at the head of the table. Totally unaware of the what was about to transpire.

His target acquired, Clint raised his bow nocked his arrow and flipped a small switch on his quiver, which made the fatter than normal arrow head glow an ominous red.

WHOOSH!

The arrow soared across the night sky, within seconds it had pierced through the thin glass and lodged itself in the chest of 'The White Tiger'. The room erupted into chaos as the remaining occupants tried to access the situation. As a few of the braver members closed in on the the body of their fallen comrade they realised their mistake.

The flashing red light began to speed up, until it abruptly stopped.

You couldn't hear a pin drop, that is until a fiery explosion erupted from the tip of the arrow. Killing the nearest onlookers and scorching the rest.

Clint faded into the darkness with a predatory smirk. 'See ya in hell Boss.'

-New York-

Clint had caught a flight on a passenger airline and had arrived back in Nee York a few hours ago. Today was the day that Agent Couslon had told him to meet him. He was sitting on a park bench, wearing dark jeans, a long, grey sleeved shirt that clung to his form like a second skin, and a black leather jacket across his broad shoulders left unzipped. He was getting a few looks form a group of female college students who were sitting on the grass not too far away. He gave them a wink when they looked over but left them alone.

Clint glanced at his watch, it was exactly the time Coulson had told him to be here. Not one second later a black SUV pulled up and parked nearby. The passenger side window rolled down and Phil Couson came into view. Clint made his way over to the jeep at a steady pace. As he arrived he rested his elbows onto the window, and leant his head forward into view.

"Barton"Phil greeted cordially.

"Coulson" Barton replied with a nod of the head.

"Does your offer still stand?" Clint inquired.

"Of Course, I'm a man of my word, you can trust me ." Phil shot back.

"Good to know." Clint answered. He didn't trust Coulson, not yet anyway. He would like to be able to finally trust someone. Something deep inside of him was telling him that he could rely on Coulson.

"In that case, I'd like to take you up on your offer." Clint said seriously.

Phil's lips turned into a grin.

"Hop in then."

Clint pulled open the door and settled himself into the passenger side.

Phil turned the key and the engine roared to life.

"The base I'm taking you to is not far from here."

"Let's go then."


End file.
